4 For arrows of the Mighty [are] with me, Whose poison is drinking up my spirit. Terrors of God array themselves [for] me!
5 Brayeth a wild ass over tender grass? Loweth an ox over his provender?
6 Eaten is an insipid thing without salt? Is there sense in the drivel of dreams?
7 My soul is refusing to touch! They [are] as my sickening food.
8 O that my request may come, That God may grant my hope!
9 That God would please -- and bruise me, Loose His hand and cut me off!
10 And yet it is my comfort, (And I exult in pain -- He doth not spare,) That I have not hidden The sayings of the Holy One.
